Hellraisers (37 page)

Patrick's upper body grew from the plaza like a stunted plant, a flagpole protruding from his shoulder. Half of one foot stuck out from the stone, twitching. There was no blood. It was like he was fused there, a statue that had come to life. And that's what had happened, she realized. Her strike had thrown off his aim. She'd made him 'port right into the ground. Patrick's whole body shook, the horror dripping from his eyes. He opened his mouth and shrieked, somehow the loudest noise Pan had ever heard. She put a hand to her mouth to stop a scream of her own from spilling out.

I didn't do this, I didn't do this.

The wormbag lumbered across the plaza but it wasn't coming for her. She stepped aside to let it through, the creature moving toward the screams of its onetime brother. It sniffed him, uttering a low, grief-filled whine. Then it collapsed beside him, dwarfing him, its blind face nuzzling his body. One of its feet, bigger than a car, pawed at Patrick, like it was trying to pull him loose. He screamed again, holding on to one of the finger-like digits.

The air hammered as a chopper flew across the plaza, the sound of sirens filling up the whole city. Pan ignored it. They had time. They had to see this through.

Patrick was dying, fast, the color all but drained from his face. He coughed out blood, gargled as he tried to breathe. It made her sick to see him there, pinned like a butterfly. But he deserved it. He was one of the enemy. The thing that had once been his sister lay next to him, panting like a dying horse. He held on to her as a drowning man would hold on to a float, staring at Pan with a look of pure fury.

“Last chance,” she said. “Just tell us how we can access your Engine. Just do the right thing before you die.”

Patrick spat out a noise that might have been a laugh. His hands dropped to his sides and he seemed to give up, resting his head on the wormbag's paw.

“Least I don't have to crush your head,” said Truck. He was drenched in wormbag guts, steam rising off him into the night. The relief that hit her—the knowledge that she didn't have to die—was as painful as it was sweet. She could take no joy in this. There was a definite scent in the air, over the smoke—that same sulfurous stench as before. She scanned the street, waiting for the demons to pull themselves loose, to come collect what they were owed.

“Please,” said Night, “just tell us, and it can all be over.”

“It's already over,” said Patrick, a dry wheeze that Pan could barely hear. His face twisted into something that might have been a grin. “We found your Engine.”

The world stopped spinning. Pan was suddenly drowning in silence. Her heart stuttered, stalling for what felt like an eternity before revving back to life. She lost her balance, only Truck keeping her standing.

“Yeah, sure,” she said.

“Try to…” He paused, coughing up blood. The smell of sulfur was getting stronger, burning up her nostrils. “Try to contact them. You can't, can you?”

“What's he talking about?” Night said.

“He's talking crap,” Pan replied. “Not for much longer, though. They're coming for you, Patrick. Can you feel them?”

“I don't care,” he said, a tear winding its way down his face, cutting a line into the dirt and the blood. “I did my part.
We
did. And at least now we get to go together.” He stroked Brianna's hand. “We can look after each other.”

“You did your part?” Pan said. “What does that even mean?”

He started fitting, shaking so hard that his skin was tearing loose from the ground. There was a ripping sound, his upper body coming loose. Beneath was an impossible mix of concrete and flesh, infernally bound.

“We only had to get you here,” he whispered. “To distract you. The others took care of the rest. They opened the door.”

“Don't even bother,” Pan said. “It's not true. It can't be. Nobody gets in to the Engine.”

“Not unless you let them in,” said Patrick. “Not unless you open the Red Door from the inside.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, her fingers a mass of crackling light.

Somewhere overhead there was a crunch of rock, dust raining down. She could almost see them, the demons, teeming just behind the skin of reality, frantically tearing their way through so they could claim Patrick's soul and reclaim Brianna's. She took a step back. Patrick turned to Marlow, his eyes slipping in and out of focus.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“What?” Marlow stuttered.
“Why?”

“You ended the war,” Patrick said. “You made it happen.”

Marlow raised his hands, shaking his head.

“I swear, I have no idea what he's going on about. I didn't make anything happen.”

“Not you,” Patrick said, his words barely louder than a breath. “Your friend. Charlie.”

Pan felt as if time had stopped, everything slowing to a nightmare singularity.

“No,” said Marlow. “He'd never … It's impossible.”

“He opened the door,” said Patrick. “He let us in.”

“It's not true,” he said. “He wouldn't do that.”

But Pan could see the uncertainty there, the doubt. She swore, terror rising up inside her like a cold, dark wave. Patrick reached up, spoke into his collar radio.

“It's done,” he said. “Tell her. Please. I want to see the look in her eyes before I go.”

Her earpiece fizzed, then a voice she knew all too well. Bullwinkle.

“Pan.” He was sobbing. “Oh god, Pan, he let them in, he let them in, they're all—”

A pistol shot, so loud that she had to dig the receiver out of her ringing ear. She called Bully's name, holding the earpiece there, trying to make out what was going on. But there was only static. She looked at Night, the girl's eyes big and white and laced with horror. Even Truck was scared, the big guy shaking. Pan looked at Marlow, ready to rip his head off, but the kid seemed about ten years old, his hands held up defensively.

“Here's what's going to happen next,” Patrick said, stroking his sister's paw. “They're going to cancel your contracts. Then they're going to come for you. You won't be able to fight them, you'll be defenseless. Mammon will pick you off one by one. Not you, though.” He looked at Pan. “You get to keep your contract. I want you to think of Brianna. I want you to think of her for however many hours you have left. I want you to think of her when they come for you.”

She looked at her watch.
649:43:20:18.
It couldn't be happening. It
could not
be happening. More crumbling dust from up the Rockefeller tower, a faint, distant, demonic scream. The wormbag lifted its head, sniffing the air, uttering another mournful groan. Patrick held his sister tight.

“And when they come for you,” he whispered, “we'll be waiting.”

 

IN HELL

This couldn't be happening.

The Circulus Inferni had found their Engine. They had breached the Red Door. They were
inside.

“We'll be waiting,” Patrick said again, then his eyes closed, his hands dropping limply to his sides. The wormbag sniffed him with its giant face, pawed his half-body hard enough to peel him from the stone like a piece of chewing gum. It opened its maw and howled its monstrous grief into the sky.

Brianna's howl was met by a shriek from the top of the Rock. There was something up there, pulling itself free of the building, a creature made of brick and glass. It was just a shadow against the night but it was moving fast, scrabbling down the side of the building. The demon opened its mouth and uttered a squeal like sheared metal.

“Go!” yelled Night, vanishing in a streak of light. Pan backed away, seeing a demon claw its way down the front of the building. Another was pushing up from the rubble, this one made of paving slabs and pipes and electric cables. It shook itself like a wet dog, then pounced, landing on the wormbag, laying into it with its claws. The Brianna thing bayed, shaking as it tried to bat the demon away.

More demons were appearing, a dozen now, two dozen maybe—more than she'd ever seen. The plaza was dissolving as they teemed out of the ground, out of the street, out of the buildings. They swarmed toward Brianna, as thick as ants as they clambered onto her thrashing body. The ground was already getting hot, the flagpoles of the plaza wilting. Pan staggered back, her shoes sticking to the melting stone. She could barely see the wormbag now, lost beneath the demons, so many that their claws and jaws looked like some nightmare machine.

Some had spotted Patrick, and were spilling off and scuttling over his cooling body. The ground was glowing so hot now that Pan had to look away, like she was staring into the heart of a volcano. She could still hear the twins, though, a pair of voices screaming as they were dragged into the pit. And she had to hold back a cry of her own, thinking it might have been her. Thinking it was
so close
to being her.

And knowing that it
would
be her.

There was a sudden roar overhead, a chopper riding into the plaza on a wave of heat and noise. It banked hard, the air splitting as somebody inside started firing a machine gun. The demons burst into dust and dirt, the bullets punching holes in the soft, glowing ground. But it was too late, most were dropping dead anyway, their job done. They collapsed, just chunks of stone and rock and glass and metal sinking into the molten earth.

A couple fought back, launching themselves at the helicopter. The pilot panicked, the tail rotor clipping one of the ruined Rockefeller towers. The helicopter bucked clumsily to one side, crunching down onto the street. The rotor churned up the asphalt for a second before tearing free, and the helicopter cartwheeled toward Fifth, plowing into a line of cop cars on the corner. Gas was spraying everywhere from the chopper's ruptured fuel line, dangerously close to the inferno.

Oh crap.

Pan bolted, seeing Marlow up ahead near the end of the street. She followed him,
please, please,
almost there when the world turned white. The blast ripped her off her feet. A concussive wave of sound followed, an explosion that threatened to turn every bone in her body to dough. She hit the ground and rolled, everything going dark for a moment.

It's over. You're finished.
The voice in her head might have been Patrick's, might have been her own.
Just die, because otherwise it will be twenty-six days of waiting for the inevitable.

“No,” she groaned, everything shaking. Somebody grabbed her, strong arms hauling her up. Marlow, slapping the flames from her back—
oh god, I'm on fire
—and leading her away.

“Come on,” Marlow said.

Night and Truck had somehow made it out of the carnage and were up ahead, waving them on. They passed Radio City onto the Avenue of the Americas together, holding on to each other like children in the woods. Every window in the street had been shattered and the air was full of clanging alarms. The lights, too, were dead. People still streamed out of the buildings, the handful of cops down here trying to manage the flow in the dark. Pan ran into the stampede, slowing to a walk and grabbing her gut to conceal the wound there. They blended into the crowd as best they could, herded across Fiftieth. There were more people here, milling on the sidewalk, filming the scene with their cell phones. Incredibly, some of them were laughing.

Only in New York.

Pan felt like laughing too, like opening her mouth and howling until she was empty, until her lungs stopped working. She clamped her teeth shut, trying to hold it inside, trying to hold everything inside, knowing that if she started screaming now she would never, ever stop.

“Where do we go?” said Night. “Oh god, what do we do now?”

Nothing. Patrick was right, it was game over. At least the others would have their contracts canceled, at least their souls were safe. She looked at her watch again. Six hundred and forty-nine hours and they'd come for her.

“This way,” said Truck, leading them over toward Broadway. Two cop cars blasted east, heading to the cathedral, but neither of them stopped. Another helicopter was hovering overhead, this one higher, out of harm's way. They were halfway down the street before Pan remembered to take a breath. It was as if the air were on fire, her chest burning. She collapsed against Marlow and he lowered her down onto the wall of a flower bed. He was struggling to breathe too, snatching in small, noisy gulps of air. He looked like death, like he was the one who had been dragged to hell.

“We gotta find Ostheim, he'll know what to do,” said Night, pacing back and forth.

Ostheim. He'd probably kill her on the spot when he found out what had happened. But Night was right, it was the only thing they could do. And fast, because if the Circle really did have both the Engines, then it would only be a matter of time before they found a way of uniting them, opening the gates permanently. Then the whole world would look like midtown Manhattan, drowning in blood and fire.

“First things first,” Pan said. “We need to get off the island. Truck?”

“On it,” he said, lumbering across the street to a parked car and punching through the window.

“I'm sorry, Pan,” said Marlow, clawing in another breath. “I had no idea. He was my
friend.
”

“Marlow, just shut your mouth until we figure out what happened.”

The Lincoln's engine gunned to life as Truck hot-wired it. Pan stood, shakily, not wanting Marlow's help but pretty sure she wouldn't be able to cross the street without it. Together they clambered into the back of the car, Marlow slamming the door behind them. Truck floored it, the car accelerating smoothly up Sixth Avenue, hooking west on Fifty-first. Truck honked and ground his way through traffic across town, to Ninth Avenue.

They swung left, heading downtown to the Lincoln Tunnel. Pan spotted an old pay phone on the corner and leaned forward, slapping Truck's arm.